“I have seen the Ayres girl with her,” said Henry.

Horace changed color.  “She is not one of the school-girls,” he replied, hastily.

“I think I have heard Sylvia say that Mrs. Ayres had asked her there to tea.”

“Yes, I believe she has.  I think perhaps the Ayres family have paid some attention to her,” Horace said, constrainedly.

“I have seen the Ayres girl with her a good deal, I know,” said Henry.

“Very possibly, I dare say.  Well, Miss Farrel did not think she or any one else cared about her very much.  She told me that none of her pupils did, and I could not gainsay her, and then she told me what I feel that I must tell you.”  Horace paused.  Henry waited.

Then Horace resumed.  He spoke briefly and to the purpose.

“Miss Abrahama White, who left her property to your wife, had a sister,” he said.  “The sister went away and married, and there was a daughter.  First the father died, then the mother.  The daughter, a mere child at the time, was left entirely destitute.  Miss Farrel took charge of her.  She did not tell her the truth.  She wished to establish if possible some claim upon her affection.  She considered that to claim a relationship would be the best way to further her purpose.  The girl was told that Miss Farrel was her mother’s cousin.  She was further told that she had inherited a very considerable property from her mother, whereas she had not inherited one cent.  Miss Farrel gave up her entire fortune to the child.  She then, with the nervous dread of awakening dislike instead of love which filled her very soul, managed to have the child, in her character of an heiress, established in a family moving in the best circles, but sadly in need of money.  Then she left her, and began supporting herself by teaching.  The girl is now grown to be a young woman, and Miss Farrel has not dared see her more than twice since she heaped such benefits upon her.  It has been her dream that some day she might reveal the truth, and that gratitude might induce love, but she has never dared put it to the test.  Lately she has not been very well, and the thought has evidently come to her more than once that she might die and never accomplish her purpose.  I almost think the poor woman had a premonition.  She gave me last night the girl’s address, and she made me promise that in case of her death she should be sent for.  ‘I can’t bear to think that nobody will come,’ she said.  Of course I laughed at her.  I thought her very morbid, but—­well, I have telegraphed to the girl to come in time for the funeral.  She is in New York.  She and the people with whom she lives have just returned from the South.”

“She must come here,” Henry said.

“I could think of no other place,” said Horace.  “You think Mrs. Whitman—­”

“Of course,” Henry said.  He started up to speak to Sylvia, but Horace stopped him.

“I forgot,” he said, quickly.  “Miss Farrel asked me to promise that I should not tell the girl, in case of her death before she had an opportunity of doing so, of what she had done for her.  ’Let her come just because she thinks I am her relative,’ she said, ’and because she may possibly feel kindly towards me.  If I can have no comfort from it while I am alive, there is no need for her to know her obligation.’”